Air In My Lungs
by LittleVolodya
Summary: Ivan writes letters to nobody.
1. Chapter 1: Ivan

TW: Suicide

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The days are starting to blur together. Sleep, wake, force himself to eat something. Repeat. Ivan wonders if it will always be like this. There's a dream-like quality to everything, slow and monotonous. There is always this dull pounding in his head that won't go away, even when coaxed with pills. It's getting harder and harder to sleep. He needs the total absence of light, the white noise static of the old radio on his nightstand, and a bottle of something or other to ease the way. His mind wanders empty hallways and highways and everywhere in between. Sleep, sleep, sleep. The yellow of his dreams seeps into consciousness and makes it hard to breathe.

He starts writing letters. His therapist says it would be good for him to get his feelings out in the open, that keeping all of it bottled up isn't healthy. She says he doesn't have to mail them. He does. He sends them all to his family's old address. He wonders who lives there now. He wonders if they painted over all the walls, the sunny hue of the kitchen, the wall in the entry way where Kat had penned in neat handwriting how tall he and Nat had gotten over the years, and the pretty blue of Nat's room. He imagines white walls and shiny new furniture. A clean slate, to make room for a new family's memories.

The first letter is a rambling mess. Jumping from subject to subject, he just needs to get his thoughts out. He writes about the weather because it's raining and the rain makes him feel trapped. Almost everything makes him feel trapped. He writes about space, stars, he tells the stories of the constellations. He goes off on odd tangents. He writes about whatever comes to mind, some of it doesn't make much sense. At one point he goes on about the pros and cons of being invisible and that somehow leads to mythology and Native American legends that he's learned about from a book that caught his eye in a thriftstore a few years ago. And at the end he asks a question, do you know what to do when you lose something?

He doesn't put a return address. He doesn't want to take the chance that someone might respond and doesn't want to take the chance that they might not.

The next letter he writes about his family. He tells this stranger about Natalia's archery lessons and how she was top of her class and how Kat would sing for him whenever he felt sick or anxious. How when they were younger Nat loved to jump in puddles and follow him around like a little duck. The cat his sisters had gotten him for his birthday, a tiny little black kitten that he had named Merlin, because it was one of his favorite shows. He writes about all the little things and the big things and he just wants, needs, someone else to know them. At the end, he asks the stranger another question: do you believe in magic?

The world keeps on turning and turning. And Ivan feels like every day that passes by moves him further away from them. He's afraid that soon he'll forget the good things because all he can do is replay that one moment over and over again.

Ivan writes a letter every day now, putting memories to paper. Sometimes he sends pictures of his sisters, his cat, one of himself. He wonders about the stranger sometimes, if there even was anybody reading these. He hopes there is. He wonders they're like, how they look, if maybe they could have been friends in another life. He always ends with a question. Some are serious, some not. Do you like Halloween, do you like cats, do you trust shooting stars, how do you like your tea, what is your favorite childhood memory, do you think Heaven exists.

Ivan dreams of screeching metal and smoke. He awakes with a hoarse cry and the ever present headache splitting his skull in half. The fading daylight spills in through the curtains, the yellow of it makes him anxious. The world feels small, as if it's closing in around him. He tries to slow his breathing, focus on anything but his racing heartbeat. He counts the specks of dust motes floating like stars in the dying light.

Kat used to take them on long car rides when he'd feel like this, playing music softly. His sisters would sing along, Ivan would sit and listen, stare out at the wide expanse of sky above. When Ivan's heart would slow it's panicky beat and he could breathe comfortably, he'd join them in singing. They never used the radio, rather Natalia would pull out her cd collection and have Ivan pick one at random. She had so many, some she had bought on her own, some had been gifts from friends and boyfriends. He remembers the one he picked that day, she had smiled and said it was a good choice and that her boyfriend Alfred had given that one to her. He remembers the song that was playing when it happened. He plays it sometimes in the middle of the night, eyes closed and he pretends they're still in the car, pretends everything's okay. Pretends that they get home safely. They shouldn't have gone that day. _This is all my fault, my fault, my fault._ He can't stop it from playing over and over again, he knows it's his fault. He wishes it had been him instead, he doesn't even know why he was so upset that day.

He thought he saw them today, Kat cooking dinner at the stove (he swears he catches a faint whiff of beef stew) and Natalia sitting at the table scribbling in her notebook (she would always pretend it was homework when really it was poetry). He'd closed his eyes and clenched his fists and stayed in the kitchen doorway until he could breathe again.

He writes another letter.

He includes the return address this time.

Ivan puts the letter in the mailbox. Then he goes back inside, leaving the door unlocked behind him and makes sure to feed Merlin. He kneels down to pet him one last time.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be a better owner, little one. I love you." He whispers.

The purring sounds loud in the emptiness of the house, he can hear it as he walks back to his bedroom. He feels a sense of relief, everything will be okay now.

It's time to sleep.

* * *

Notes: Rewrote some parts and added some things.


	2. Chapter 2: Arthur

Arthur stares down at the letter in his hands.

It was written on unlined white paper in carefully constructed cursive. Black ink.

 _It's not real._

He can't bring himself to move.

He breathes in and out and in and out.

It occurs to him that Ivan (and he never knew his name until now when he put it on the return address) isn't doing that. Not anymore. It makes him uncomfortably aware of his breathing.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His chest feels too small.

His tea has grown cold and he still can't bring himself to move. He feels an ache of loss for this person that he knew and yet didn't know. But he wanted to. He had hoped with each letter that whoever it was might finally allow him to write back. However one-sided their conversations were, Arthur had become fond of his sort-of penpal.

He doesn't know what to do now. He wonders for a moment if it's okay to mourn someone you never met in person and never had a real conversation with. Then he decides that it doesn't matter what other people may think. Ivan was his friend and he knows at least one thing that he needs to do.

"Don't worry, Ivan." Arthur says to his empty kitchen. "I'll take care of your cat."

He imagines that Ivan would find it funny that Arthur now has a Merlin.

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Notes: I felt like I needed to add this as a separate chapter.


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